Chapter 157 – Ethan POV
The Guest Room Chronicles
Six months.
That's how long it's been since we found out Amara was pregnant with twins. And now?
She looks like she swallowed two watermelons whole.
Don't get me wrong — she's beautiful. Absolutely stunning in the glow-only-pregnant-women-have kind of way. But… terrifying too.
She waddled past me just this morning with a bowl of cereal in one hand, a spoon clutched like a weapon in the other, and a warning glare that said: Speak, and I will end you.
So I didn't speak.
Not a word.
Just nodded, stepped aside, and watched as she marched to the couch and started crying because the cereal was soggy.
Pregnancy, I've learned, is not for the weak. And neither is living with a pregnant woman carrying twins.
Especially when she's your wife.
Especially when she smells everything.
And I mean everything.
I wasn't prepared for her dramatic "I can't breathe around you!" meltdown three weeks ago. I'd just walked out of the shower, feeling fresh, wearing my favorite cologne — the one she gifted me last year.
She took one sniff and gagged.
Then she turned around and said with the deadliest seriousness, "You either sleep in the guest room or I burn your cologne."
So now I sleep in the guest room.
I keep the cologne in a drawer.
And I haven't hugged my wife in over a week because "your skin smells like soap and I want to vomit."
It's great. Really.
Currently, she's curled up on the couch with a tub of pickles in one hand and ice cream in the other, watching reruns of some home renovation show while aggressively yelling at the screen.
"That backsplash is HIDEOUS! Who told them beige goes with green?! Idiots!"
I poke my head into the living room cautiously. "Hey, sweetheart."
She turns slowly, eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Just checking if you need anything."
She eyes me like I've just insulted her ancestors. "I need the ceiling to stop spinning when I stand up, I need your babies to stop practicing karate in my bladder, and I need a donut. A chocolate one. With sprinkles."
I hold up the bakery bag in my hand. "Already got it."
Her face softens. She blinks. Then suddenly tears well up in her eyes. "You're the best husband ever."
I blink back. "Thank you?"
"You remembered the sprinkles," she says, wiping her nose. "I love you so much right now."
I hand her the donut like I'm presenting a sacred offering to a very emotional goddess. She takes it, sniffs it, and beams.
Then she takes one bite and pauses.
"This is the wrong kind of chocolate," she says flatly.
"It's… double fudge?"
"I wanted dark chocolate. This is sweet. I said not too sweet!"
I open my mouth to defend myself but stop.
I've learned.
Instead, I raise both hands. "I'll go back."
She lets out a dramatic sigh. "No, it's fine. I'll suffer."
"You sure?"
She bites again and chews with exaggerated sadness. "Totally fine. I'm just pregnant and craving specific things my husband fails to remember, but it's fine."
God help me.
I turn around and walk back to the door. "I'll be right back."
"No! Ethan! Don't leave! I'm sorry!" she cries behind me. "Come back and rub my feet!"
I return, and in ten seconds flat, she's smiling, kissing my knuckles, and propping her enormous feet on a pillow while I kneel beside the couch, gently massaging her ankles.
"This is the only reason I married you," she murmurs with a satisfied sigh.
"I knew it."
She giggles softly. "Also, you're not bad to look at."
"Well, thank you."
She squints at me. "Did you put lotion on?"
"Yes?"
"Ew. It smells like vanilla. Go wash it off."
"Amara—"
"Please, Ethan. I'll vomit."
So I wash it off.
Again.
When I came back, she's asleep, donut in one hand, TV still blaring. I gently take the half-eaten donut away and cover her with a blanket. Her mouth twitches into a small pout, and I swear, even in sleep, she's dreaming about food.
I kneel beside her and touch her belly gently. It's massive now. Every time I think she can't possibly grow more, she proves me wrong.
"Hey, little ones," I whisper. "You're making Mommy go a little crazy, but she's doing so well. I'm proud of her. And you. So stay in there for a while longer, okay? No early escapes."
Amara stirs and mumbles something.
I smile and kiss her forehead, then quietly retreat to the guest room — again — with my pillow in one hand and the faint scent of vanilla still stuck on my skin.
Life right now isn't glamorous.
It's messy. Chaotic. Loud.
But it's also real.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
Not even my cologne.